


The Broken Heart of Malekith

by Viscount_Vampyre



Category: Warhammer - All Media Types, Warhammer Fantasy
Genre: F/M, Gothic, Loss, Tragedy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-02
Updated: 2020-03-02
Packaged: 2021-02-27 22:01:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,282
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22982956
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Viscount_Vampyre/pseuds/Viscount_Vampyre
Summary: Deciding to tease one of his pages Malekith becomes struck with a painful memory, eliciting a flurry of emotions into his black, and ice-filled heart. Thinking about a certain woman the king falls victim to melancholy.I wrote this as a tribute to the themes of Gothic literature; namely tragedy, romance, and loss. Please read and review. I hope you enjoy it.
Comments: 13
Kudos: 11





	The Broken Heart of Malekith

The Broken Heart of Malekith

By the Viscount Vampyre

For an Elven Princess I once knew

…

Originally the introduction of this story was from something else, but I decided to make some additions and edits in order to make it fit with a story specifically looking at something I wondered to myself:

What might Malekith do when he’s alone? A man who is so powerful, so consumed by rage and vengeance, so manipulated…

He must be a lonely, and pitiable sort.

After all, since he’s a King, a string puller, the very top of the pyramid, one without peer or equal. Everyone is either an enemy, a tool, or wants something from him.

How can a man without equals or friends _not_ be lonely?

So, I hope that you enjoy this, and feel free to leave a comment or check out my other works.

Be well,

Lots of love

VV

…

The Broken Heart of Malekith

High upon the wind-worn cliffs and bluffs of Naggarond sits and dominates the Black Tower. It’s impressive architecture soars into the sky, reaching a height almost impossible to comprehend, and to a peasant observer its corners, countless gargoyle statues, stone buttresses, windows, and battlements would seek to drive them mad if they even dared attempt to understand the lines, cuts, and angles of its magic imbued masonry.

Expert craftsmen had toiled, night and day, lovingly crafting the tower after the Druchii had escaped the sundering. In those early days the Witch King had wished for himself a spire of opulence, grace, and divinely intimidating power. A place from which he sought to project the dread majesty of his incontestable right to rule as father of the Druchii, and the son and heir to Aenarion; and as such the true-born Phoenix King. A sovereign of all elves…

To this end the tower's grounds and palatial approach was to serve as an awe inspiring, hand-made mastery of nature and forms. Yet to an onlooker it now appeared as perverse shadow of the grandest palaces in Ulthuan and of the Druchii’s withered dreams of old Naggaryth.

When he had founded it, the younger Witch King ordered marble imported from far and wide, the sheer volume of which would have made even the maddest of Dwarven architects pale. Mines, forests, and scores of works were established, exhausting and irrevocably changing the very landscape of Naggaroth itself.

Tons beyond count of lumber, stone, ebony, silver, iron, clay, ivory, were consumed in its construction and all the greatest minds of those who'd fled with the Witch King's court had gladly contributed to craft it; their individual gifts standing testament to one of their people’s greatest accomplishments. No expense was spared to bring the vast chambers and mighty walls of the gargantuan complex into being.

In the time during the heating, tempering, and manufacture of the various components, tools, and refined resources for its construction smoke hung around the isthmus and gulf of Naggarond so heavy and thick it could be cut with one’s hand. A blanket of black, starless, night fell upon the city throughout this time. Until, when they had finished, the smoke lifted to reveal that there were no more trees as far as the eye could see.

The soil underneath Naggaroth’s near-perennial snow washed away with the spring thaws and without the previous coverage of evergreen trees and their sheltered undergrowth the snows began falling heavier each season.

Work upon the tower itself though, went on for centuries without slowing; day and night it had continued. Artisans, slaves, labourers, and all manner of other workers toiled, under the lash, or freely and lovingly at their respective profession.

Yet as centuries and the Druchii’s attempts at supremacy waxed, the waning began to set in. And time wore upon the memories of Naggaryth like water upon the shore. Beating and hammering like the tide and sea, until the fondness of their lost homeland had finally soured, and the dream of a palace to rival those of Ulthuan was eroded beyond recognition. It had become rotten until it had paled into only the barest fragments of a broken dream.

The craftsmanship which had gone into the tower’s grand ballrooms, the council chambers of varying size, the hundreds of apartments and solars, the balconies and the salons, the baths, the courts and gymnasiums, and all the other private rooms for noble living seemed almost unnecessary now.

Yet the palatial aspect of much of the tower wasn’t abandoned at once. The tragedy of such degradation, of such an erosion of time is that it happens; _over time_. Slowly. Sadly. Almost insidiously. Like the growth of a cancer, or the sands upon a stone engraving. It isn’t a transition from one day to another. It’s one made over decades, centuries, and eventually, millennia.

Work teams were ordered elsewhere, or dismissed outright, their tools and the half-formed pieces of what they were labouring at had been left where they were. Wooden panels and stone tiles sat mere feet from where they were to have gone, walls and dividers stood with holes that weren’t filled in, the wide slabs which were to have been doors stood uncarved.

And as workers were released from their work some whole wings of the tower which were finished became sealed off completely; their tapestries and grand painted hallways left dark, without candles, work lamps, or the light of the sun, there were no guests to view their vaulted ceilings or marvel at their fresco adorned walls.

Much of the tower was like that now; cloaked in near-perpetual twilight. Rooms were never entered by nobles or courtiers and the barest presence of life was restricted only to the occasional Royal patrolman. And the only light to ever pass through was from this guardsman as they marched along, solemnly bearing an orb of green witch-light atop a stave to illuminate their path.

Cursory inspections were carried out as a matter of course, to ensure the lack of an assassin lurking about in the shadows of one of the grand parlors. Yet there never was. The duty of the patrol yet remained, and even for the most cynical of those Druchii guardsmen it remained one of the worst assignments.

Not because of its loneliness. Much of the day to day minutia of guard work was spent on one’s own.

This particular obligation was made worst by the effect it had upon the hearts of the men who had to walk it. Alone, stepping along with one’s stave of green witch-light it was only natural to begin looking upon the works which had been wrought around them. The palace through which they trod.

And for every man which passed through these epitaphs to a bygone era the journey was one of unbridled elvish melancholy. Best surmised as; _what could have been_. Without proper education these men didn’t know the names of the fine details or the various crafting tricks which had been employed, they knew only the tragedy which sat before their eyes.

Mirrored glass sconces and great delicate chandeliers of exotic crystal hung empty throughout the tower's halls, and for centuries now green witch light was the only source of illumination once inside the great building. The untreated and unfinished frescoes were peeling, dust and flakes of paint, oxidising metal accents, rotting wood furnishings, all these and more existed as if it were an example of charcoal upon canvas, and a masterpiece unfinished.

…

Nearer the top of this tower was the sanctum of it’s sole, true, and permanent occupant. Sitting in an otherwise plain, utilitarian chair, the Witch King and acclaimed ruler of all Druchii remained. Steeping and thinking plainly unto himself.

“My lord, you seem most keen upon another matter. If it please you I shall dispense with this report, nothing pressing requires your attention at this moment.”

Looking from the corner of his helmet’s visor the king beheld his seneschal. The hardened, aged, Druchii servant was one of his more effective ones in the last few centuries and at his words Malekith finally snapped to from his daze.

In response the metallic, hollow, voice of the king sounded into the room, characterising its already cool atmosphere with the palpable taste of wintery chill.

“That shan’t be necessary, I am keen upon nothing else save this moment. What were the last articles?”

The courtier nodded his head dutifully and cleared his throat without another word. Proceeding along with matters of state the younger man relayed to his king various tedious notes about pressing political machinations, the coming spring, the status of royal raiding fleets, and of tables accounting for royal expenditure.

It drew on for as long as was necessary yet upon the exit and dismissal of the seneschal for the day Malekith couldn’t help but feel a pang. An uncharacteristic feeling which warmed within his armour covered chest and made his fingers tingle under the cold metal of his gauntlets.

Blinking and stepping towards the expansive balcony of his chamber the king took a deeper breath than he normally would have as he proceeded to engage with his doubts.

‘It is moments like this where I… wish the release of flesh.’

He looked towards the palm of his gauntlet and beheld the worn, master-work, armoured segments.

‘A king… trapped.’ He mused. ‘Trapped by the nature of his station and by the raiment of his very protection.’ Chuckling he sarcastically chided himself, ‘I ought to have been a poet!’

Then with a dejected sigh he directed his attention to the other soul within the chamber.

To his side Malekith waved and spoke to a shivering and elaborately dressed Druchii boy. His jet-black hair was combed backwards, and his bright silver eyes glowed with the vibrancy of life and youth. Seeing the king’s motion, he gulped and nodded attentively before stepping forwards.

The royal pages revolved daily with who would serve the king and at what times of the day, with a whole tree of intrigue, plotting, and hierarchy dominating the politics of something as miniscule as that.

Fueling the competition among the pages, scores of the most prominent Druchii noble families gladly offered their young sons to fill the king’s court. Hoping that their boy’s position would garner prestige, influence, and even act as an observant whisperer in the halls of the Black Tower.

“Boy.” the monarch bellowed.

Meekly the page dared to respond, his whole body vibrating with fear as he avoided viewing the dreaded appearance of the king’s armour. Turning around from his balcony Malekith tilted his head as he looked the young Druchii over. Eventually he spoke aloud, “Your face is unknown to me.”

The page’s already pale face turned nearly blue as his very blood sought to escape the king’s scrutiny. The burning, emerald gaze of the king’s eyes traced his round, attractive features.

“I am Faen, m-my king. Of house Duraen’dael.”

The king stepped past the page as he returned to his chamber. Eventually Malekith responded, his voice coolly sapping the air from the room and petrifying the boy.

“I didn’t ask _who_ you were. I merely remarked that yours wasn’t a face of familiarity.”

The boy’s eyes widened and his lip quivered in abject fear at his blunder. He dared speak to the king without being asked to…

Sitting back down in his chair Malekith brought his hand up with a deep sigh, granting the boy some clemency, “Be still yourself child. There is no cause for your fear at this moment.”

Letting out a shallow, high pitched breath of relief the young page brought a hand to his mouth both to stifle his sigh and to keep from anxiously vomiting as he remained rigidly upright.

Leaning against the back of his seat Malekith beckoned the page closer, “Come closer my child, I am your king, not a Raksha nor a wight.”

Nodding and following his order the page stepped forwards, his head angled awkwardly so that he wouldn’t make the mistake of looking Malekith in the eye. When the boy had come a few steps closer the Witch King spoke, his voice strangely soothing as he reached a hand towards his draughting desk.

“House Duraen’dael you say? A minor dynasty surely. You must tell me; of your fathers’ progeny, where is it that you rank?”

Nodding the boy immediately obliged, “N-ninth born my lord.”

Chuckling falsely, Malekith nodded, “Busy man your father. How old is your eldest sibling?”

“Near five hundred, your grace.”

Exhaling the king closed his eyes wistfully. “Ah.”

“To be such a venerable age, and of such a minor family.”

Malekith reopened his eyes and looked back to the page, “I can scarcely remember being so young.”

Behind his masque the Witch King allowed himself a private smile.

“And you, my boy? How many years have you lived thus far?”

The question sounded with a strange paternal interest. A calming and velvet inflection made the metallic voice somehow warm. Nodding the page resisted the urge to smile embarrassedly, the attention now totally directed upon himself, and no way to avoid it,

“Near thirteen my lord.”

At this Malekith’s lips rose as he chuckled behind his armour. It began slowly, and the page’s smile faded in confusion, he had no idea what the sound was; it was so alien and uncommon. But eventually the laugh rose and grew in formality and Faen realised that Malekith… the Dreaded Witch King had laughed.

“Ah! So young? And a handsome son you are.”

Faen blinked and his cheeks reddened, his chest warming to have received such a compliment from the man whose helmeted features were on his coins. _The king himself!_

Malekith’s voice continued, lowering in almost a secret and hushed tone as he asked, “Pray tell, are there any maidens of the court which… catch your fancy?”

The boy’s face contorted as he blinked and stuttered. This drew nothing but entertainment from the king and his laughter returned. When he finished chuckling Malekith raised a hidden brow as he scrutinised the page.

“I’ll remind you that it’s a crime to lie to your king.”

Faen’s brow rose and his face reddened deeply across the cheeks. The torment and teasing served as a perverse and entertaining fancy for Malekith.

Gulping and looking from side to side the young boy struggled, his mind whirling and running without control as he unraveled before the Witch King’s very eyes. Without any true handle or inkling of intrigue the boy’s voice meekly began a struggling answer,

“I…I… s-she’s…”

Stuttering, and feeling his chest thunder louder and louder the page coughed as his knees wavered and wanted to buckle.

“S-she’s a h-handmaiden.”

At this Malekith leant forwards, “Oh?”

“She’s an attendant to, l-lady…”

The boy furrowed his brow and shut his eyes tightly, “Oh gods… I… I can see her but… I… can’t remember the Lady’s name…”

Tilting his head down as much as possible the boy shrunk in shame. As Malekith shook his head, “It matters not. _Your_ maiden is of interest here. Tell me of her, what does she look like? For a start.”

The boy swallowed, yet remained motionless and quiet, except for his steady, heavy, breathing. His tongue having frozen behind his teeth. Raising a brow impatiently Malekith leant his left-hand forwards and the talon-like tip of his gauntlet came underneath the page’s chin,

“I asked you to tell me of her…”

The boy reluctantly began tilting his head upwards until he was forced to come eye to eye with the king.

“So, tell.”

Leaning back and withdrawing his hand the king sat, his emerald gaze staring the youth down. Eventually, Faen nodded and his voice returned,

“H-her hair is like… like ink.” Cringing at his words he hastily corrected, “Or m-midnight.”

The page averted his silver eyes from the king and blinked rapidly. A vision of his ‘maiden’ mentally appeared for him. Letting out a private smile the page’s cheek blushed further and he let out a bashful clearing of his throat. A confidence growing as he spoke,

“It’s long, and braided in these, snake like coils. With, silver beads, or bands woven into the locks.”

Faen smiled.

Nodding, Malekith looked away from the page, instead merely listening on approvingly,

“Continue.”

“She has this, this walk to her… It’s quick and, heh, it’s almost impatient.” The page sniggered boyishly, “I don’t know what it’s like serving a lady but, the way she looks at it, it must be an abysmal toil!”

“Her face looks, like… well, she’s p-pretty. She looks like a, like a…” the boy faltered, “I don’t know how to say it but she’s beautiful…”

Malekith merely nodded, his eyes closing as Faen continued.

“Her cheeks have these little, freckles. I know some boys say, uh, rude things about such a feature but. I like them. Cause she has them.” He giggled innocently. “Her eyes are the lightest shade of blue. It looks like the ocean, or… I mean the sea.”

The boy sounded somewhat dejected now, realising how much he’d revealed, how much passion he’d spoken and how embarrassed he was.

“I’ve never seen the ocean. But her eyes look like the gulf on an early morning’s day… Or how I imagine the ocean would be.”

Malekith nodded along, before asking, “When is it that you see her? Your freckled beauty.”

Blinking and clearing his throat Faen became soberly conscious of the volume and emotions which had tinged his earlier words. Responding to the king now as plainly as he could muster,

“Most often when you hold court your grace.”

Malekith grunted, “Have you spoken to her?”

At this the page let out a sudden laugh, before bringing both hands to cover his mouth in horror. Raising a hand Malekith made a pardoning motion with his fingers before repeating his question, “Have you spoken to this maiden?”

Shaking his head and finding his voice Faen grunted and cleared his throat.

“N-no my lord, I haven’t the words to dare speak to her…”

Malekith chuckled at this and opened his eyes, turning his head to the side as he looked at the page, “And yet here you are, speaking to a king?”

Tilting his head down Faen’s face contorted as he realised the dichotomy, eventually he responded, “Somehow the prospect of speaking to your dread majesty is less fearful…”

A moment of silence passed before the Witch King howled with laughter once more. Bringing his right hand to his desk Malekith loudly slammed his fist to the table, “You have courage within you yet!”

Standing from his seat the king paced from his desk as he let out a satisfied breath and petering chuckle.

“Now! What is her name? I imagine it’s something you’ve said to yourself, hmm?”

Malekith cocked a brow as he looked at Faen, for the moment the king and page were kindred men… Speaking of that which only two brothers could, _their love of women_.

Chuckling at his thoughts Malekith nodded, “It’s something which you’ve held close to your breast as a secret. I know… I can tell!”

Faen nodded.

Leaning over and smiling widely the king stifled his perverse enjoyment before asking again, his voice rising cheekily, “Come now! Might I know it?”

Swallowing the young page eventually spoke, “Allisara…”

The name made the king’s hidden smile fade.

It was a colder chill, and a more bitter pain than any he’d felt in more than a thousand years… The fun which he was having, the innocent erasure of barriers between himself and the boy who was serving him… The laughter.

It was all undone in a few syllable utterances as if the name were somehow a spell.

Malekith remained hunched over at a tilt for almost a full minute of silence before he finally moved and stood back up straight. The silence grew and the page began to squirm under the gaze of his king. The teasing fun which had slowly grown in the chamber had utterly soured.

The king eventually broke the silence, his voice hollow and metallic as he spoke behind grit teeth. In a moment unsure that he had heard the word that he had,

“What… was that name?”

Faen’s eyes widened and he tilted his head downwards in terror. The tone of the king’s words held no secret as to the mood he had suddenly turned to. And he had served long enough as a page to know that the king was not one to annoy…

“It, it w-was A-Allisara, y-your grace”

As if he’d been struck with an arrow the king stepped backwards. His breathing growing audible as he panted within the plate of his armour.

With a quiet, vulnerable, and delicate whisper Malekith repeated the name,

_“Allisara.”_

Raising a hand slowly, he eventually spoke again, his voice now distant and the tone somehow devoid of emotion as if he were stunned,

“You may go.”

Faen bowed deeply before leaving, but his face was covered in a strange unease, as if he had done something wrong. Yet he didn’t dare stop to ask the king anything. He had heard the order and knew he was to follow it.

Once the chamber’s door had closed and the page was away Malekith turned and let out a roar of pain and raw desperation.

Reaching forwards, he took hold of and easily upended his desk. Loose leaves of parchment, quills, a full inkwell, ledgers and diaries flew away from the surface as he let out a wretched cry of anguish.

After the crashing noise of the desk finished ringing in his ears the king turned to the word which had brought upon him such a flurry of emotions, and he repeated it again, his whisper an injured and hurt admission,

_“Allisara.”_

…

Flicking the long locks of her auburn fringe the elven princess playfully giggled as she leant backwards.

“So, you intend to steal me away do you? Set to track me down among the glade-woods?”

Grinning widely and blinking his green, lively, eyes Malekith let out a laugh, “I’d follow you into a Dwarven mole-hill were it necessary!”

Allisara closed her eyes as her lover held her closer and kissed against her neck, eliciting a loud laugh from the princess, “Well perhaps not as drastic as that!”

The prince of Nagarythe let out a gleeful laugh of his own as he kissed a line up her throat and towards her jaw and lips.

Letting a satisfied moan escape the princess leant her head down and the two met passionately. After they had kissed the she-elf sighed contentedly in his arms before wrapping her own around his back as she pressed her cheek to his.

Like any young man denied his love Malekith offered a desperate alternative, “Must you away to Athel Loren? Why not tell your sister you’re indisposed, and cannot attend?”

Reluctantly Allisara pulled away from the skin of her lover and pursed her lips, an expression of disapproval across her brow. Avoiding her eyes Malekith continued,

“With the issues here in Ulthuan I need you, I need you by my side.”

Allisara had sobered completely, her earlier revelry faded as she sat upon Malekith’s lap and listened to his honeyed words.

“The King has called a council of the princes. We’re to discuss this cultist business.” He cleared his throat, “Afterwards, I… I’ll need you. As, as an ally. As a…”

Running his hand along her arms he quieted. Shutting his eyes and leaning forwards he placed a kiss through a gap in her dress’ stylised seam upon her bicep.

“As my consort.”

Blinking and slowly retracting from Malekith, Allisara stood.

“I know… And gods know I would have it that way…”

The prince sighed and interrupted her, “ _But.”_

Allisara looked over her shoulder, disapproving of Malekith’s petulant sarcasm.

“ _But_ I am not the ruler of my own fate Mally. You know this.”

Her voice lowered and she let out a heavy breath, “Please, you know I must return home. There are so many things which remain undone! And… and I…”

Meeting her flawless, glistening eyes, Malekith steeled himself. Holding his breath as he listened.

“I cannot stay.”

He nodded, “Even were you to want to?”

She let out a heavy breath, quiet tears falling down her glittering and perfect cheeks as she nodded, “Yes… even if I wanted to, which I do.”

Shaking her head and closing her eyes she nodded, “I do my love…”

Slowly rising Malekith nodded and extended his warm, pink, palm towards her. Defeated.

“Once more? Before you depart, might I dance with you? Under the moonlight… Like we used to.”

Smiling through her tears Allisara raised her hand and laid it into his.

She knew what he had planned to do at the council of princes and why he wanted her to stay. She also knew why her sister had demanded her to return.

Malekith however, didn’t.

For all his spies, machinations, and whispering informants, he couldn’t realise, through his hubris, that his plot had been obvious to many, and especially to her. She just didn’t want to admit it. So Allisara had borne the secret of her knowledge well, until now.

Upon seeing the face of the prince to which she was intended. The innocent young man she had known and loved. She knew that he was going to be gone entirely after what was to come. And she wondered; how much of what he showed her now was mere façade already?

How much of her Mally was already being twisted and influenced towards darker designs than youthful, lusty dalliances in the gardens?

Steeling herself gracefully she smiled and nodded as she answered him, “Once more my love… Like we used to.”

So, she took his hand, and she leant her face to his, and without music the two danced amidst the gardens and the marble statues in the evening. With moonlight above them and the loud hissing noises of the night around them Allisara wept silent, diamond tears into Malekith’s tunic and onto the warm flesh of his neck.

She wept for their love, for the state of the kingdom, and for the wars to come.

And finally, she wept for him.

When it came time for her to depart his arms and the realms of Ulthuan, she kissed his lips as hard and as passionately as her delicate body was capable. She gave him as much of her soul as was permissible in such a moment. And though she had no more tears to shed she could only let out a pained laugh at his confused and inexplicable expression.

He truly didn’t know.

‘But’, she thought, ‘he will… Someday, I know he will.’

…

Extending his hands outwards Malekith’s emerald eyes wet in their corners as he pictured her.

“Allisara”

His voice was full, warm, and devoid of the typical metallic hiss of his armour as he innocently added,

“My darling…”

Yet once the words passed the metal masque covering his face the memory was gone and the vision had faded. The events which he was attempting to relive were many thousand years before. And the woman in them had been dead for several centuries now…

Slowly retracting his empty hands, the Witch King stared down into his armoured palms before eventually sitting down upon the stone floor of his solar. Embarrassment flooded his veins and he let his arms fall to rest in front of him as he stared ahead blankly.

“Princess Allisara.”

His chest tightened and he held back a strange tug in his body as he spoke aloud to no one in his empty chamber,

“She loved ivy.” He admitted.

Furrowing his brow, he added, “And bluebells.”

His voice picked up a passionate cadence as he began to speed up, “Roses. Carnations. Blossoms. Clover… and all manner of coloured lupins, not a flower did she miss in naming! There was no garden did she not feel at home within.”

His voice cracked and he let out a growl as he brought a fist towards the floor.

“Lavender, and tulips, or crowns of violet hand woven in the spring. She-”

Malekith quieted. His brow furrowing and his heart hardening at such a vocal admission of pain aloud. A wet tear rolled down his cheek, his voice no longer that of a king.

His voice was that of a boys’ as he admitted, “She, was beautiful, to me.”

After a few quiet minutes in silence he raised his hands towards the edges of his helmet and gnarled, heavy crown. Planting his palms on either side of the helm he began to lift it up.

Biting his tongue and suppressing the discomfort of the metal scraping along his burned and forever raw flesh. The stringy locks of black hair atop his head which he still had grew long and wildly under his crown, and once it was off, they fell loosely, this way and that, free of their prison.

Without the metal against his cheeks, or the oppressive tightness of his helm obscuring his eyes he slowly raised a gauntlet to touch the edge of his face. Hissing in pain at first, he closed his thin, damaged, eyelids and waited a moment, getting himself used to the sensation of touch again before continuing.

With his right hand Malekith slowly moved his palm and fingers along his left cheek, and in his head he innocently pictured that it was her hand touching him, and her cheek which he was endeavouring to cup.

But the fantasy did not suffice and quickly he opened his eyes. Looking downwards in disappointment as he withdrew his hand from his own face.

“Allisara.”

Returning his helmed crown to his head the Witch King stood, moving out of his chamber to locate the first servant which he could find. Startled to see their king in such a peculiar state the servant could only grow more confused when he asked what flowers grew nearby.

Eventually the servant answered in saying; “Royalmage and winter blue rose, your grace.”

“And their colours? What does Royalmage look like? And are winter blue roses, _blue_?”

“Royalmage comes in shades of violet, and winter blue roses are indeed blue, your grace.”

Nodding Malekith stepped away from the servant, his voice coming out quickly, without restraint,

“I’d like both, as many as can be gathered, brought here to the tower. And a sculptor, the best in the city! I’d like to see him.”

The servant nodded dutifully, “Yes your grace”

Stepping down the hallway Malekith’s seneschal cleared his throat interrupting them. On either side of the aged courtier followed two armoured generals,

“Ah, your grace! I hate to bother you my lord, but I just received word, one of your Drachau have been slain. And there are already forces moving in the east, dogs which ought to have been left to lie are rising.”

Turning towards the seneschal the Witch King snapped to attention. Immediately he knew to whom and what the courtier was referring. With a low chuckle he put on an expected performance.

“So, the little manticore has some bravery after all? Ready my guard and send word, we move and enact our plan now.”

The generals smirked and the seneschal nodded. Quickly the three men departed and the king was alone with the servant once more.

Stepping away from the servant the king grew silent. A visible weight upon him until he spoke, “Disregard what I said, I have no need for flowers…”

The servant nodded deeply.

“Yes, your grace.”

Stepping after his men King Malekith was, for once, glad to be within his armour.

Neither the servant, the generals, nor his seneschal had seen his tears.

…

The end.


End file.
